Experience Freedom from Betty Wants In on Vimeo.
I have ambitions to attempt such freeing sports as power-kiting, and eventually kite-surfing. I am not brave enough to want to try this.
But God, do I wish I was.
Infinity List are responsible for this amazing video. The athletes are just as amazing.
Humans are amazing, insane, impossible things.
Enjoy.
This is me and Zaa.
If I’d known I looked that confused in the photo, I would have asked Nick to take another. Oh well.
Now, remember the red hat with the tassel I finished last month? Zaa saw it and immediately declared that when she visited I’d better not be wearing it as she would steal it from me. And she’s bigger than me. So she’d win.
So I sent her a couple of photos of yarn from my stash that would work, and knitted one for her.
Pattern: Wood Hollow Hat, by Kirsten Kapur (Through The Loops)
Yarn: Dream in Color Classy in Chinatown Apple
Needles: 4.0mm
Not being a lover of tassels, I gave her hat a big fat pom-pom. Which she adored. And this is the great thing about Zaa.
We’ve known each other since my first attempt at university, back in 1999. When I returned to Southampton University, we lived together in her house for four years. And how we did that is pretty cool, considering that we’re somewhat opposite people.
She is terribly, fastidiously neat. I live in a bomb site, and she wonders how I know where everything is. She works stupendously hard. I am a slacker and master of the last-minute assignment. She is very independent and enjoys her own company. I am fairly clingy and feel more at ease around friends. She runs marathons. I did kung-fu. She’s vegetarian. I am a solid meat-eater. She loves football. I love rugby.
At the same time, we have similar tastes in music and film. We both enjoy trying new things. We love dogs. We prefer baking over cooking. We love great conversation and good food.
So for all those years, we orbited perfectly well around each other. I don’t think we necessarily get each other, but we each respect what the other does and the choices we each have made, and we’ve always been interested in what the other is doing, even when we haven’t got the slightest clue.
So even though I know she’d be horrified if she saw my stash, and mystified as to how I could spend what I spend on yarn, she loves my knitting. She is that ultimate non-knitter friend who completely and utterly appreciates and loves the things knitted for her. True, to date it’s only been this hat and a pair of socks (they were from 2009, Zaa; I checked), but if she asked for a knitted thing I would not hesitate. I would happily offer.
Plus, I think the pattern looks better in the yarn she picked than mine. The semisolid colour gives a bit more texture to the pattern, and I think makes the pattern more interesting. Not that I’m going to steal it from her, of course: she’s bigger than me. And I’m too small to get away with a big floofy pom-pom.
I think she may be overdue a pair of socks. I have yarn and sock club patterns. Hmmm….
The A and Z hats. Similar, but different. As they should be.
My gorgeous Nick, on his 29th birthday back in January
I don’t really believe in Valentine’s Day. I think I did in my early, stupid days with earlier, stupider boyfriends, but not anymore.
Firstly, it’s a little unnecessary for us. Nick’s birthday is in January, mine is in April, our anniversary is in August and then comes Christmas. Our times of personal celebration are perfectly spread across the year that we can always have a good meal out and celebrate at our own pace, in our own time. We used to celebrate the anniversary of when we started going out, but we became an old couple very quickly and we did away with that one.
I mean, you try going out on Valentine’s Day. You need to pre-book and compete with all the other people wanting a Valentine’s Day dinner, and more often than not you’re saddled with the set menu because most restaurants are out to make a killing, and you probably have to leave your table in about 90 minutes. Don’t do it. Go out when you want when everyone has a fair playing field, eat whatever you want off the menu and know you’ll have at least two hours unless it’s busy.
Secondly, I think Valentine’s Day makes people feel bad. It magnifies loneliness, raises bitterness or sadness and forces obligation. Do we need an engineered holiday that isolates people who happen to not be in relationships? No. Do we need an unwelcome reminder of past relationships that ended, for better or worse? No. Do we need a specific day to buy flowers, have a nice meal, tell each other we love each other? No. And if we did, there is something very wrong with how we run relationships.
Thirdly, Valentine’s Day, as far as I’m concerned, has very little to do with love.
In times of depression I’ve had great difficulty liking who I am, nevermind loving that person. For a time I didn’t even know who that person was, so I was still getting to know the stranger inside me, even when she seemed familiar. And if I wasn’t very good at loving myself, how honest was I in loving the people around me? What did I know about loving other people if I didn’t even like myself?
As things got better, though, I became very aware of one thing: I felt like a person that was easier to love. I was getting more comfortable with myself, and that feeling spread to the people around me. So while it’s still a struggle, things are more at a balance, and I feel a lot more honest about how I love the people around me.
I got to thinking recently about what love meant. I’m a very lucky person in that I’m married to my best friend, and we love each other in ways that are weird, wonderful and sometimes may contain swearing. But nothing about us came to mind.
Instead I came to one abiding image that I have never forgotten, ever, and doubt that I ever will. I am going to share it with you, and I hope you’ll agree with me.
This was in the early days of living in London. It was Waterloo Station, on the Jubilee Line concourse. I was passing through to get home, and I saw them.
Two of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen, hugging each other as if for the last time. One had long locks of wavy dark hair and olive skin and dressed in a smart suit. The other was fairer with shorter blonde hair and was dressed more casually. There was a small suitcase between them.
Neither was willing to let the other go.
Clearly it was a business trip. I think this must have been during the last days when you could still take the Eurostar from Waterloo. It didn’t look like it was going to be a long trip, as the suitcase wasn’t very big. Half a week, maybe.
But they held each other for what felt like forever. They were smiling, they were sad, and they said nothing. They radiated so many things: I’m going to miss you. I wish you didn’t have to go. It won’t be long before I’m back. You are the most gorgeous thing in the world and I adore you.
London’s commuters flowed on either side of them, moving like water past twin rocks in a river. It’s not that they took no notice, though this being London, ignoring others can be the norm. It was that I think they did notice, and gave this couple the space they needed. There was so much love that it made a space.
The very idea of Valentine’s Day would be smashed to pieces by the force of it.
I remember walking past those two men. I remember stopping briefly. And I remember smiling my entire journey home.
Love who you are. Love who you’re with. Love whenever, wherever you damned well please.
Well, here we are at the end of January and I’ve already stuffed one of my New Year’s resolutions: not to have more than three knitting projects on the go at any one time.
I was doing really well at first: I had an overdue baby blanket, a rectangular shawl that I cast on in December 2010 and I joined the Through The Loops Mystery Sock KAL. That’s three. Then during a post-Christmas knitterly meet-up, Ling of Socktopus threw me a skein of yarn that I’d been admiring but not dared to bring home with me and said that I could knit them a sample.
So I started that.
And then I felt the sudden urge to change my mind about my colour choices for a pair of colourwork mittens, which resulted in me having yarn that no longer had a purpose, so I decided that I needed a new hat.
A hat with what feels like a giant tassel.
Pattern: Wood Hollow Hat, by Kirsten Kapur (Through The Loops)
Yarn: Quince & Co. Lark in Winesap
Needles: 4.0mm
So even though I finished the hat, I still have four things on the go rather than three. And I’m about to cast on something else. It’s all gone a bit wrong, but I figured that maybe it’s okay, and it’s me being genuinely excited about knitting again. I fully aim to finish the overdue baby blanket before the end of February, though, so that should help clear my conscience… if I ever had one to begin with.
I did, however, finish spinning a bump of fibre. This braid here:
became this skein of yarn here:
Fibre: Spindlefrog Oatmeal BFL in Woodland
Specs: 4 oz, 130 yards, 11 wpi (DK weight)
Wheel setting: Spun at 1:13.7, plied at 1:9.5
Technique: worsted-spun, short forward draw
I pretty much threw this fibre into the wheel and waited to see what would happen. I’m currently in an odd love-indifferent relationship with spinning, where sometimes I’m happy doing it, and other times I sit there, staring at the singles on the bobbin, the fibre in my hand and genuinely think: “What is the point? It’s still crap.”
I know I can’t get better at spinning without actually, you know, spinning. But I constantly feel like I’m having to relearn a lot of things, and making the same mistakes despite all my trying. I’m probably overthinking it all, and I did find that the spinning was easier going when I had an audiobook to listen to, so I’m sure it will be better.
I thought just for fun I would do a post at the end of every month also rounding up the books I’ve read and the films I’ve watched. So for January:
Read: Full Dark, No Stars by Stephen King (from the library). I’ve always preferred his novellas and short stories, and this was a nice collection. I liked Fair Extension best, because it was simple, cheeky but horrific in its normality. 1922 I thought was the hardest to get through, but it was one of those stories where I kept checking how many more pages I had to go, not because I couldn’t wait for the story to end, but because I didn’t know how much more of the claustrophobic horror I could take before its conclusion. It’s that sort of good.
Still reading: Stories, edited by Neil Gaiman & Al Sarrantonio (Kindle). It’s my second read-through of Stories, though I never read the last story by Joe Hill, so while I can’t say anything about that one, I can safely say that my favourite stories in this collection are Gaiman’s The Truth is a Cave in the Black Mountains – there is a moment in this story where I had to exhale in satisfaction, because something that was at the beginning caught with something near the end – and A Life in Fictions by Kat Howard.
Songs of Love & Death, edited by George R. R. Martin & Gardner Dozois (hardback). I’ve only got through six of the sixteen stories so far, but it kicked off with Love Hurts, by Jim Butcher, set in the Dresden Files, so that was a great start. I really need to keep more short story collections around. These have been fun.
Watched: Thor, dir. Kenneth Branagh, 2010 (LoveFilm). We rang in the New Year with this, and it’s just ridiculous fun. It helps that Chris Hemsworth is rather nice to look at, and while that’s all well and good, I really want to see more of Tom Hiddleston. It tickles me that Kenneth Branagh directed this. Who knew he could come up with an Asgard that was so beautiful to look at that all Nick and I could say was, “Damn. We need a bigger screen for this.”
The Rock, dir. Michael Bay, 1996 (BBC1). I have a soft spot for this film. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it harks back to a time when daft action movies still had Don Simpson, and Michael Bay hadn’t got the idea that he might be the best thing since sliced bread. But I can quote this movie in too many places, and I own the soundtrack. I am not ashamed.
Four Lions, dir. Chris Morris, 2010 (LoveFilm Instant). A film is a great comedy about radical Islam when each and every time I laughed, I thought whatever God was in charge of this world would strike me dead. Within the first ten minutes Nick and I were quoting bits to each other and laughing like idiots. It’s bittersweet near the end, but as any good satire, it made me wonder about all the people out there who do think like Barry (Nigel Lindsay), or who are perfectly innocent like Waj (Kayvan Novak).
And there goes January.
The lovely Ruth at Rock+Purl wrote today about her favourite spot in her home. I thought about this, and realized that despite my lack of love for our flat, I do have a place that I spend most of my time, and that gives me lots of comfort.
This is our massive sofa. It’s in our living room, right under the south-facing window, which means on most mornings, this is the warmest spot in the flat, and me being the cat-like creature that I am, tend to secure this corner with some sense of territory.
There is always a pillow and a blanket there, because this sofa has been a bed for so many people. Ruth herself has slept on it, and our best friend Chantelle lived on it while she was writing her Master’s dissertation. A number of friends have spent the night on it: it’s long enough that 6′ 2″ Daddy Irish can sleep comfortably on it, and a pair of our friends have slept on it on each end, feet meeting in the middle.
During the worst of my depression, this was where I stayed. It was my safe corner, and had everything I needed. My knitting, my books and magazines, my writing tools: I would knit, read or write as I needed. It’s even where I spin, as it’s a comfortable enough height for me to sit with a bunch of cushions against my back to treadle along with a DVD on the telly, or an audiobook on my iPod. Hopefully soon we’ll be getting a dock sound system, and it’ll be easier for me to listen to my playlists and audiobooks without using my headphones.
In the last year, that windowsill has been home to my plants that I grow from seed. So while there is currently only a bright basil plant there to provide me with colour, soon there will be little pots of seedlings, all doing their growing in the warm sun, and potentially providing us with lush colourful chillies, too.
This is where most of my knitting gets done. A little card table allows me to write by hand in the sun. Books and magazines get read in turn. This is where Nick and I huddle up in the evenings in front of the TV – usually shouting at Pointless or drooling at cooking shows. Sometimes I’d be knitting and he’d set up the card table to paint his miniatures. Sometimes we’d both be reading.
Quite often, I sleep here.
Whenever Nick comes home, I’m pretty sure he checks the sofa before he checks my office, to see where I am.
When we do move, some time in the far future, we’re probably going to hang on to this sofa. Maybe I’ll work out how to get new covers for it, and it will likely live in whatever room I claim as my office.
You know, I think I’m going to go and knit for a bit. You’ll know where to find me.
When I was little, I read a lot. I was lucky, and was also read to for a time before my parents either felt I was doing all right on my own, or they didn’t have as much time anymore; I don’t remember which. My mother read me little Ladybird books, and books with nursery rhymes in – she always skipped over The Twelve Days of Christmas because she felt it was ‘too Christian’; I was maybe three or four, so I’m not sure I would have cared, and I missed out on a good counting rhyme – and my father read me cookbooks, in the hope that when I grew up I would cook for him.
My parents were quite happy to buy me books, whatever books I wanted. They were always insistent that I should be able to read, write and speak good English, especially my mother, so the fact that I was happy to read must have thrilled them.
But I never had a library.
I had school libraries, yes. But the books were pre-selected, and were still from the era of its British founders from 1893, and despite the fact that I was in school between 1986 and 1994, the books seemed to not change very much. There were rarely new books, very few current books, so it was hard for me to find something I actually wanted to read in my school libraries.
And because of the strict school rules, we weren’t allowed to carry in books that weren’t either textbooks or books that were from the school library. They would be confiscated, and you’d never see them again. Which led me to become my school’s Roald Dahl contraband dealer: I would sneak in books by Roald Dahl, secure them in hiding, and friends would borrow them, secreting them home and returning them to me when they were done.
(There were other dealers. There was definitely a dealer in Sweet Valley High books, and another in teenage horror fiction, but if we each knew who the others were, we never spoke of it. It was strange times, but perhaps schools in Malaysia were a little stranger then.)
Nick, on the other hand, grew up mostly in a library. He would find books he otherwise might not have found. He got shown books upon which he might otherwise have not have cast a second glance. He read so much and so widely, especially in science fiction and fantasy, that sometimes I could pull the name of an author I’d never heard of, and he would have read them.
His dad had started reading him The Hobbit when he was about five, so he tells me, and they moved on to The Fellowship of the Ring not long after. Not long after that, Nick took off by himself, to read on his own, and never stopped. I don’t think anyone in the Irish house ever did stop reading.
(The rectangular shapes of many of the Christmas presents are not accidental. I did marry into a reading family.)
Books in his home were not often brand new, but inherited, or got second-hand. They seem more precious that way, because I guess it feels to me that they had to be obtained, whereas I probably took for granted the ease in which I could acquire books. We have his dad’s copies of Stephen Donaldson’s The First and Second Chronicles of Thomas Covenant – Dad, if you’ve been looking for them: sorry! – and they’re beautiful and battered and well-loved. A lot of our books look this way now.
Our two reading histories led to two different reactions when we found out that we were getting a new local library in Canada Water. A proper big library. Not a school one with its limited and locked-down books, not a university one filled with reference texts – though I loved my university library a great deal – but a real library.
Nick just smiled knowingly, as if this was always going to happen, like leaves falling in autumn. I was beside myself with excitement. My own library.
It was much more important to us, I suppose, because elsewhere in the country, many libraries were facing closure. Even libraries in London were in danger. And yet here we were, with a shining new library, complete with convention space, meeting rooms and soon a new outdoor courtyard. We are among the luckiest and most grateful people in the country, and we know it.
I took out my first real library book last week. A book not on a class reading list, or one that had the essay I needed to read before my next seminar. A book I wanted.
Nick came home to find me in my office, on my beanbag, reading. After dinner, the flat was quiet, because I continued to read. He was reading, too, at his desk.
It is the nicest feeling in the world.
As you can see, the blog redress has gone on according to plan.
When I started this blog back in May 2010, the focal points of my life were quite different. I was unemployed and spent most of my time crafting – or trying to be crafty – with varying degrees of success. I often felt guilty about the crafting, because I always felt like I ought to have been doing something more useful, something that would contribute more to my little family.
Then I decided to go back to college, and now horticulture and design has become the major part of my life, leaving my crafting where it should be: as a hobby, an indulgence, a reward. I don’t think I’ve enjoyed my knitting more, and everything feels more at a balance.
The banner image is of a baby leaf from Liriodendron tulipifera ‘Fastigiatum’, also known as the tulip tree. I took this photo at RHS Wisley in the spring, and this baby leaf was just emerging from a bud, and looked absolutely new and perfect. I love this tree – this is a fastigiate form, so it’s much narrower in habit – because it is only one of two trees in the whole world that have this leaf shape. It’s called the tulip tree because of its tulip-shaped flowers, rather than the cut of its leaves, but only a mature tree would flower, and they have to be about 20 years old to flower.
I think this baby leaf sums up how I feel my life is now a lot more than the old banner. It is clean and fresh and going in a new direction, and it feels good to have something to focus on.
But there are other new things, too.
You will have noticed the new icon in the sidebar. I will be a guest blogger on Rock+Purl’s blog later this year in September, but in the mean time, do go and visit the blog for a new guest blogger every Sunday. Ruth had the great idea of recruiting guest bloggers to share ideas and inspiration, and if you’ve ever met her, you’ll know it’s hard to refuse her. It will be exciting to see all the other entries, and I’m going to be looking forward to each Sunday.
You may have also seen that I’ve added a Gallery tab above. It’s empty for the moment, but I’m hoping to showcase some of my photos more this year. I have so many that I haven’t even looked at or dealt with and hopefully this will get me going. What may also help is that I’ve joined an informal Project 365 group on Flickr called Photo Stash with some friends, so again, more impetus and inspiration to come.
This being the first day of 2012, it’s usually time for resolutions. I usually have the same ones, and achieve some of them with – again – varying degrees of success. Last year, I wanted to:
I also passed my RHS Level 2 exams, and while my volunteer work didn’t work out as well as I had hoped, at the end of November I joined the Horniman Museum and Gardens volunteer team, and I have to say it’s been the best volunteer experience I’ve had thus far. I will definitely be staying with them for as long as I can.
So what about this year? Well, I’m pretty good with the blogging, so I have no real worries there. The usual things, like keeping fit, reading more, watch more films, are all good and doable and I’m happy with them. But otherwise:
But I think above all, Neil Gaiman has said it best, and I’m sure he doesn’t mind if I share this with you:
